Matriarch
by sinemoras09
Summary: Bishamon in love. Angst. Unrequited Kazuma/Bishamon. Spoilers for chapter 72.


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She is just a girl when the old cleric teaches her about love: aloft on a tiger's back, she sees a coterie of humans washing by the river. She has seen groups of humans before - humans gathered together as an army in battle or a marauding force, or else crowded beneath the exacting eye of an emperor's gaze. This group of humans seems different, and Bishamon looks to her guide for clarity.

"A man and a woman and a child," Bishamon says, and in her mind's eye the cleric nods, sagely.

A family, her guide supplies.

"Family," Bishamon says, and the word rolls like a sugar cube coating her tongue.

A child is born from the womb of his mother. A shinki is born from the life-force of his god, a once intangible spirit given shape and form.

"A mother's love is the purest form of love," the cleric says. "The bond between child and mother is not unlike the bond between shinki and god."

Bishamon understands. Though she is girlish and newly reincarnated, she still has access to thousands of memories, fragments of the human lives that winked into existence. In the old cleric, she sees her as young woman with her hand resting on her belly; a moment later, she is rocking and nursing her child. She sees scores of happy memories, sad memories, of a family growing and bonding.

"Am I like a mother?" young Bishamon says, and the cleric smiles and strokes her head.

"You are, my master, by your very nature as a god." 

xXx

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One can never be lonely when one has family.

They take turns bathing in the grotto. Bishamon will go first, sinking gratefully into the steamy waters. Sometimes she will lose track of time, leaning peacefully against the stony ledge in the moonlight, warm waters lapping serenely at her shoulders and the steam rising and curling around her like an arabesque. But no matter how long she soaks, Kazuma never minds waiting - half the time he doesn't soak in the grotto at all, choosing instead to scrub roughly at the river that flows behind their compound.

The night is quiet, and as Bishamon rises she winds her damp hair into a thick plait at the base of her neck. Her robe flutters as she walks, and as she and Kazuma cross paths she sees how he blushes and ducks a little, clutching a change of clothes to his chest and bowing his head in embarrassed deference. He catches her eye, then bows shyly. She smiles and nods at him in acknowledgement; they keep walking - he up the path to the grotto and her down the path toward their house.

She reaches the house. Lighting a candle, she looks at herself in the mirror and begins combing her fingers through her hair again, humming to herself. Orange light bounces off the shadowed walls and she has a sudden urge to look at Kazuma in his Chouki form again; she has never seen an earring so beautiful.

There are soft night sounds around her - the sound of insects and the slight rustle of leaves - and through her window she can see how the trees around her are traced in starlight. Though it was not too long since she's seen Kazuma walk up the grotto path, she is impatient and eager to see him. She pinches out the candle and walks toward the spring, pulling a light shawl around her shoulders.

The hill she crests opens up into a clearing, and as she steps closer she stops.

Kazuma is bathing. He is bare-chested and his hair is loose and hanging along his shoulders. Bishamon stills, one hand carefully touching the bark of a tree, and watches.

His body is different than hers. She had never noticed it - she was vaguely aware of the differences between men and women, but the old cleric never explained it. Her eyes trace a line along the hollows of his body, down pale skin and the surprising darkness beneath.

He turns suddenly, and his eyes widen as he ducks into the water. 

xXx

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The name, she finds, doesn't quite suit her.

It isn't the syllables, per se - the name itself is pleasant, something warm and familiar, exactly what she had asked him for. It's more in the way he says it: with quiet deference, always with a deep, respectful bow, his forehead low to the ground and the tips of his fingers touching in quiet supplication.

When they walk, he is always a few steps behind her. When they eat, he serves her first. He sits on his knees at the edge of the room, always at the threshold and never inside with her.

Not so with the Binbougami's shinki, who talks to his master as if they were equals. She watches as the Binbougami laughs and talks with him excitedly, leaning into his shoulder and clutching at his arm. 

xXx

.

"Veena," Kazuma says one day, apropos of nothing and with unusual authority in his voice. "I know we haven't gone into detail about this before, but I think we need to discuss the appropriateness of how you're touching me."

"Oh?" Bishamon says. She had been absently caressing the inside of Kazuma's upper thigh, watching their fledgling family playing on the riverbank. "Does this bother you?"

"Er. Well not exactly. But it is still inappropriate," Kazuma says.

"Why?" Bishamon says. Kazuma's brow furrows.

"Because-" he starts, then frowns to himself, searching for the right words. "Because it is an intimate area. You are touching me the way a lover would."

"I see." Bishamon frowns. "So if I wanted to touch you, Kazuma, where should I put my hand?"

"I...I suppose my arm, perhaps. But that is not exactly a neutral area either, and-"

Bishamon smiles and links her arm around his, leaning against him. Kazuma looks quickly at the ground.

"Kazuma?"

"Veena we need to talk." Kazuma doesn't look at her. "I have been remiss as your exemplar in terms of correcting you. But being overly familiar with your companions could lead to misunderstandings."

"But you're the only one I touch this way, why is that a problem?" Bishamon says.

"Er, well. Veena..." Kazuma blushes. "Recently you've been touching me, ah, more than usual."

She has. Ever since she started giving out names again, she had the urge to reach out toward Kazuma.

"Oh," Bishamon says. "Forgive me, Kazuma. I did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable."

"That is quite alright, Veena." 

xXx

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Perhaps because he knows what it's like to struggle, but Bishamon finds that Kazuma is well-suited to teaching the young ones.

They are going over lines, and Bishamon watches as they stand along the edge of the river, Kazuma raising his fingers into a halberd and showing the young ones how to draw a border. Her family is growing and Kazuma steps easily into his role as her lead. With a touch of pride, she watches as he talks to them with an unfamiliar note of authority; even the way he carries himself is different, his spine straight and his voice shifting into an easy confidence.

It's only when she's alone with him that he slips into his old habits - that sweet-natured eagerness, the way he follows her like a self-effacing shadow. He meets her with a low-sweeping bow and when he thinks she's not looking, rushes around clumsily to meet her needs.

He doesn't call her Veena in front of the others; she thinks to herself that it is probably just as well. 

xXx

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The couples in the Near Shore always walk side-by-side.

Lately, Kazuma no longer walks behind her; he strides next to her, briefing her about the day's events or discussing with her the state of her godhood.

There are a few couples walking along the market. Bishamon's gaze roams toward a man and wife lowering their heads to inspect the shiny flesh of newly caught fish, then traces a line toward another couple picking out vegetables and setting them in a basket. They speak easily and warmly, and occasionally they touch each other, one hand at the small of another's back; another reaching out to hold the other's hand.

Kazuma is talking, and as he does she reaches out and gently clasps his hand; he stops, startled. She looks up at him and smiles warmly.

He pulls his hand away at the last minute, just as their fingers begin to touch. "Veena, what are you-"

"I saw a few couples at the market holding hands," Bishamon says, by way of explanation. "They were walking the way we are." She nods toward the Near Shore's denizens, at the couple selecting fish and the other couple picking vegetables.

Kazuma sighs, tugging on the sleeves of his haori. "That is not the same," he says.

"Oh?"

She looks at another couple, a mother holding the hand of her child. "They too are also holding hands," Bishamon notes. She looks up at him, wonderingly.

He has come so far in the decades they have spent together; whereas before the mere thought of standing in her presence would be enough to make him stammer and blush, this new Kazuma now looks at her with a quiet authority.

"It is not appropriate," Kazuma says, gently. He gives her fingers a gentle squeeze, then presses her hand to her chest as if handing it back to her. "I would like to hold your hand, Veena, but it would be wrong of me because you do not know any better."

He returns her hand back to her chest, and Bishamon covers it with her other hand, looking up at him. His face betrays no hint of disquiet, and he smiles at her kindly, the way a teacher would indulge curious child.

This is how he treats her, sometimes: not like a master, but not like an equal, either. He humors her, knowing she is too far removed in her godhood to understand human intricacies.

He builds a wall between them, when she only wants to be closer. 

xXx

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"I should like to kiss you," Bishamon says one day, after she witnesses a western couple kiss each other, the woman and man sitting on a park bench locked in a private embrace. They are walking along the streets of Paris, Kazuma having brokered an alliance with the western gods who are populating the area. He smiles at her kindly.

"Veena. Only couples like they are kiss."

"But did you not say it could be a western greeting?" Indeed, Bishamon had seen westerners kiss each other on the cheek as a matter of course. Kazuma gives her a little shrug.

He looks good in a dark peacoat and rounded lenses, the fashion of the time in the Champs Elysee, and while Bishamon had fumbled badly with her French Kazuma speaks it as if he were born speaking it. She sees another couple walking, smiling at each other and holding hands.

"What makes a couple?" Bishamon says, suddenly. "Are we not a couple?" Kazuma smiles.

"A couple denotes a romantic relationship," Kazuma says.

"Very well. Then what makes a relationship romantic?" She waits for an explanation.

"Sex," Kazuma says. Bishamon stops. "Usually." She frowns and cocks an eyebrow.

"It is a way of pairbonding," Kazuma explains. "Humans form family units to raise children. It is a form of attachment in order to keep cohesion."

"Well we are raising our shinki," Bishamon says.

"That isn't the same," Kazuma says.

Bishamon looks out into the street. at the bright city lights and the crowds of people.

"I should like to be in a romantic relationship," Bishamon says, quietly. There is a chill in the air and she pulls her coat tighter around herself, looking outward. "Kazuma. Why aren't we?"

She hates that she can't read him. Kazuma, who can read her every move, who can decipher and detect all the thousand threats around him, who knows things ten steps ahead of her and who shines a light on everything she doesn't understand, goes quiet. "You don't understand what you're asking for," Kazuma says gently.

"The Binbougami and her shinki are in a romantic relationship." Her eyes burn but she keeps staring at the cityscape, unable to look at him. "You've told me this yourself."

"The Binbougami does not have the benefit of worshipers who love her," Kazuma says. "It's only natural that she would seek it somewhere else."

"Then why can't I?" Bishamon asks. She turns to look at him. Once again they are standing close. There is an energy between them that extends beyond their formal connection.

And then the moment dissipates. Kazuma takes a step back, then smiles at her kindly. "You are beloved among all of Japan," Kazuma says. "Your name goes as far back to India and East Asia. You have hundreds of shinki who love you."

She can't voice it to him, because she doesn't have the words. She can't explain the crushing loneliness she feels, how her family tiptoes around her like she is something fragile. "Why won't you let me be closer to you?" she asks. The conversation is making her upset. "We're raising shinki together. You're the only one I can give my confidence to."

"Veena-"

"You pull away when I go to hold you." The hurt slips out, but she can't give it a name. There is a tortured look in Kazuma's eyes.

"This conversation is hurting me," he says, quietly. "If we go on further I might sting you."

Bishamon blinks. Kazuma swallows and forces his eyes down.

"I've done things." He doesn't look at her when he speaks. "I've done terrible things to protect you."

"What things?" Bishamon says, because it's awful and confusing and she doesn't understand.

"I'm sorry, Veena. But I can't tell you."

There it is. Another wall. Another shinki pulling away from her.

"I will always be with you," Kazuma says. He takes her hand, gently brushes his thumb over the bumps of her knuckles.

"Have trust in this, Veena. I will always protect you." 

xXx

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She can't stop crying. Kugaha doesn't say anything as Bishamon weeps helplessly.

She didn't know he had been in contact with the Yatogami. She had been feeling sick and weak, and while normally at times like these, she could rely on Kazuma to steady her, this time he kept disappearing. She looked to him for comfort, but he only spoke to her with a professional courtesy.

She has never felt so broken. Dully she hugs her arms, curling into herself, as Kugaha presses a hand on her shoulder, steady and firm, touching her the way Kazuma has long refused to. 

xXx

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There have always been rumors, hushed whispers furtively passed among the other shinki, but even Bishamon is surprised that Kazuma is in love.

"Do I know her?" Bishamon says, and Kazuma stammers. "For heaven's sake, Kazuma, you can at least tell me that much."

"Y-yes." Kazuma doesn't look at her.

Bishamon sighs, crossing her arms. "Well what is she like?" Bishamon says. Kazuma stares at his hands.

"She's kind," he says, quietly. "Gentle. She tries so hard but she easily gets hurt. It makes me want to protect her."

"I see," Bishamon says, and in her mind she could picture it: a girl who was soft and nurturing.

"What else is she like?" Bishamon says, sitting next to him. Kazuma's eyes flick upward.

"She's very trusting," Kazuma says. "She's open and honest and generous to a fault. And...well sometimes people take advantage of her."

"She sounds like an idiot," Bishamon says, frowning. Kazuma laughs softly.

"She's actually quite intelligent," Kazuma says, and whatever reticence he had about the topic of conversation seems to fade as he starts listing the mystery girl's praises. "She's a bit sheltered, and she doesn't have that much life experience, but she's...she's actually kind of adorable-" and he smiles goofily, his eyes creasing into two happy half-moons, "she gets so confused sometimes and she always makes the cutest face, it makes me want to hug her and kiss her for being so cute!"

"Ugh," Bishamon says, and Kazuma laughs, ducking his head, shyly.

"She likes soft things," Kazuma says, scooting closer. "I've never seen anyone so happy to hold a puppy or a baby rabbit. And when you make her happy, it's the best feeling in the world."

"Is she beautiful?"

"Very."

"And does she feel the same way you do?"

"...No."

"Why not?" Bishamon says, and she feels a rising fury at how her blessing seems to hunch into himself, wilting in the face of an ungrateful, unrequited love.

"I'm not good enough for her," Kazuma says. He folds his hands in his lap again, quietly.

There it is. That kernel of self-doubt. That self-loathing that has a chokehold around his name. Silently Bishamon thinks of that stupid, vapid girl, and thinks of all the ways in which she could destroy her.

"Who is she?" Bishamon says. "If it's a matter of references I shall be happy to sing your praises!"

"I'd rather not say," Kazuma says, blushing. Bishamon shakes her head.

"Kazuma. You're my blessing. What kind of master would I be if I can't make you happy?"

"I already am happy," Kazuma says quietly, and Bishamon pulls back, surprised. He looks up at her, earnestly.

"It...it might be hard to understand, and quite possibly harder for others to wrap their heads around. But I already am very happy."

"But she doesn't love you. How can that be?" Bishamon says. Kazuma smiles.

"I suppose it's just enough to know that she trusts me."

"I see," Bishamon says, frowning. Kazuma smiles shyly.

They don't talk about what lead up to his exile - her sickness, the dull, aching pain that sat at the seat of her chest, a manifestation of Aiha's jealousy and self-loathing. Normally at times like these, she could rely on Kazuma to steady her, but he kept disappearing. At best, he spoke to her with a professional courtesy; at worst, he actively avoided her, acting aloof and coldly distant to her. She didn't know then that he had made contact with the Yatogami, and she refused to tell him just how much that hurt her.

It's nice being able to talk to Kazuma like this. For far too long, he has always kept himself at a distance - always careful, always guarded. Though he was her oldest and dearest shinki, he was never actually close to her: what little she did know about him, she gleaned from his memories. At the very least, they are somewhat closer. 

xXx

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There is a pile of paperwork on her desk, but Bishamon is distracted. Across the room from her, Kazuma is at his desk, sorting through the day's wishes and going through a stack of reports compiled by his subordinates.

Of course he would fall in love with some doe-eyed simpleton. Some sweet-natured girl too stupid to appreciate him. Bishamon's vision blurs, the documents in front of her going out of focus.

She can never be what Kazuma wants her to be.

She is a war god. She could never make him happy. 

xXx

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The stars are out tonight. Bishamon stands at the balcony, silently looking out into the darkness of the garden. Kofuku-dono and the Yatogami have long had the benefit of living among the humans, and Bishamon is never more acutely aware of her isolation.

He has been gone for three weeks now.

She would be lying to herself if she said she wasn't missing him. That she wasn't needing his guidance. His absence hurts her like an open wound, and quietly she hugs her arms and wonders if he feels the same ache.

She wonders if he, too, is looking at the stars.


End file.
